


Legends of the Round Table

by AndreaLyn



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-25
Updated: 2013-09-25
Packaged: 2017-12-27 15:31:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/980601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndreaLyn/pseuds/AndreaLyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Over the many years, the Knights of the Round Table created legendary stories. These are some of Galahad's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Legends of the Round Table

Galahad was not the last of the boys to be pressed into the service, yet it will always be recalled that he was the after-thought, and the one they had noticed last. They had traveled nearly a year across Sarmatia to assemble the Knights, and Tristan had been the true last. But it was only after Tristan had joined their ranks that everyone seemed to notice that among them, there was a young boy, struggling to even grip his sword properly.   
  
Bors had a fit, and Gawain had stomped off in a snit while Dagonet wondered aloud whether this was all an elaborate joke. They weren’t supposed to be minding cares. They were supposed to be fighting for their freedom – as far off as it may have been in those early years. Even Arthur had taken one look at the boy and expressed incredulity that he was expected to fight for the empire.  
  
Galahad simply sat there, clutching to the sword he had been given with inquiries as to whether he should begin his training. He received a gentle, “give us time,” from Dagonet and was then left alone to wander amidst the encampment, overhearing conversations and simply watching.   
  
Bors was peeling an apple and grunting, “he’s a boy.”   
  
Tristan was feeding his bird delicately, raising one eyebrow. Galahad held tightly to the bark of the tree in front of him as he leaned forward to hear the words. Tristan was quite the mystery, but he had skills as a tracker, or so Galahad had heard.   
  
“And Lancelot wasn’t? Gawain is barely shedding boyhood now. He is not the first boy to be entered into this service, and he will not be the last, that much is certain,” Tristan murmured sagely. The bird squawked in addendum, a terrible sound that made Galahad jump. He recognized Lancelot’s name. Supposedly, he had been only a year or two older than Galahad himself when the legions of Rome came to take him away.   
  
“He’ll bruise easy,” Bors muttered.  
  
To that, Tristan gave an odd sort of chuckle, not smiling though. “Yes, that looks certain, as well.” Galahad frowned, navigating away from the fire where Bors and Tristan were sitting with a few of the other knights, many of which he had not learned the names of yet. Galahad had overheard one of them comment on how this service was likely to be the last service they would ever give.  
  
He backed up right into another boy. He whirled, and fumbled for his knife, a task that had the other boy rolling his eyes in frustration. This was Gawain, he recalled. The youngest, save for Galahad himself. Galahad froze in his place, glancing up at Gawain with trepidation.   
  
“You’re young,” Gawain accused him.   
  
“So are you,” Galahad reacted defensively, his face arranged in the best bravado he could put on. Gawain got a terrible look of absolute smugness on his face as he tucked away a sword he had been carrying.  
  
“I’m world-weary,” he announced, his voice laden with authority.   
  
“Is that the same as arrogant?” Galahad inquired innocently, cocking an eyebrow upwards. He was young, but he was not a fool. He would not suffer foolishness either. He came here to serve, and once he was done this blasted service, he would finally return to his home. “You’re young, too.”  
  
“Already, I don’t like you,” Gawain announced in a snide tone.  
  
“Well, the years ought to glide by, then,” Galahad muttered to himself with a sigh and turned around, intending to head back to the fire and sit there, wondering if they would talk about him while he was sitting right there. He set himself down in a great show of making himself look pathetic. Immediately, the conversation halted. Tristan wandered off, and Bors regarded Galahad wearily.  
  
“You fought before, boy?”  
  
“My father is dead,” Galahad looked up, “and I’ve no brothers. My mother was not very adept with weaponry, and I aided her with the household. It was very rare that fetching the water required a battle involving swords.”  
  
“Not only is he a pup, he can’t fight,” Bors grumbled to himself. “How lovely this service to Rome is, where we have to teach the young how to hold their blasted swords,” he added before storming off, leaving Galahad and the one they called Dagonet around the fire. Galahad stared blankly into the flames, afraid to move, wanting to be home.   
  
He didn’t move until the fire itself was put out, and their leader, Arthur, roused him to move and find rest so that he would be able to fare better in the morning. Already, Galahad was weary with the constant plagues of accusations that he was too young, too much trouble, too much a burden for them to bear.  
  
He might have been the youngest, but he would put his life on the fact that he was just as brave as the others, if not more courageous and loyal. With great protest, he found his way to a cot, and settled into it, shivering slightly as a great wind breezed past his skin. With it, voices drifted from the nearby gathering of trees.  
  
“I bet my life to the gods he can’t shoot an arrow to save his life, and he seems all assured of himself in a terribly annoying manner, but…” that was Gawain’s voice.   
  
“You like him,” that one was Tristan.   
  
“He’s not so bad,” Gawain admitted.  
  
Galahad fell asleep with a small smile on his face, curling up on himself to garner some heat. Perhaps this service would not be so terrible. He clung a little tighter to his memories of home for fear that they might drift away like smoke in the midst of the night.   
  
***  
  
They were to be stationed on the Isle of the Britons.   
  
Britain.   
  
Galahad tried to say it over and over again, linking it to the notion of home, but it was no use. Home would always be Sarmatia, and he would never associate this talk of moors and fog and rain with home. He’d be damned thrice over before he did so. So he resigned himself to a temporary home in this Britain that the Romans spoke so highly of, commending it as a stronghold foreseen by Hadrian himself when he erected a great wall, crossing the country. To the South, they would guard.   
  
They were moving quickly now, taking to their horses and learning the paths of the countryside. It took one month of intense training before Galahad could even shoot in a straight line. In the end, it had taken Bors and Dagonet's threats of leaving him behind in a snowdrift to get Tristan’s lessons to sink in. Once he had learned his way with the bow, the lessons of the sword were not far behind. Percival was quite patient with him in guiding the blade and teaching Galahad how to be patient in his strikes, to think one step ahead, and most of all, to never be impatient with the sword.  
  
Gawain had simply snorted that Galahad would never learn patience.  
  
***  
  
It  _rained_  in Britain. It rained often, and it was cold. By the time they had reached their outpost, Galahad had endured twelve years upon the earth, and not a one of them were as miserable and cold as this British winter was proving to be. Perhaps as the time went by, he would learn to get used to it. The other knights had become used to Galahad and his youth, and all the benefits it came with. Often, he was sent with Tristan to scout an area thanks to his speed and small stature.   
  
None were as good to him as Gawain had become. It seemed that finally, Gawain had acknowledged that their ages bound them closer together, and they had spent many a night around the campfire sharing tales of memories past, trading off the stale bread from a week past, and laughing over silly jokes made to keep the mood light.   
  
In fact, Galahad would even go so far as to call Gawain his first true friend amongst the knights. Together, they had mourned the deaths of two other knights before they arrived at their outpost. Galahad had not been present when they had died. He had returned from a scouting mission to find Arthur bent over two bodies – bloodied and marred with dirt – hands ploughed deep into the Earth.   
  
Together, they had stood at the funeral and watched as graves were dug and swords were thrust into the Earth. And that night, Bors had even slipped some ale to the both of them, muttering, “best grow up now.” By the fire they held that night in memoriam of the fallen knights, they had quietly exchanged words about how they thought they would forfeit their lives. Galahad had clung to a half-cup of ale, not quite drinking it, and he had learned all the secrets and whispered admissions of Gawain. His brother in arms, and his true friend.   
  
“I hope they take my body home,” Gawain admitted quietly, the fire crackling before them. It was deep into the night now, but Galahad did not feel the slightest bit drowsy. He wanted to cling to his waking hours. He was alive in those. “Let my family have me.”  
  
“You don’t want to be buried with the rest of us?” Galahad raised an eyebrow.  
  
“Only if there are no Knights left to mourn,” Gawain said. “I won’t have you grieve for me. That’s not what I want.”   
  
“I’ll mourn you,” Galahad volunteered bravely, in the best bravado a boy could have.   
  
Gawain turned to him, smiling wistfully and painfully in the flickering flames of the fire.  
  
“Don’t,” he said simply before walking off.   
  
Later in that same season, Galahad learned from Tristan that while Galahad was off scouting in the woods, Gawain had killed his first Woad – a terror and a fright that Galahad had only yet heard of, not seen, and most certainly never battled. When Galahad had left, Gawain’s hands hadn’t been stained with the blood of a man. When Galahad had returned, the world had changed.   
  
As winter changed to a miserable spring, Galahad was left wondering just what it would be like when he killed his first man.   
  
***  
  
Two years passage, and Galahad had begun to feel the definitive twitch to his skin, a sort of low rumbling in his stomach, and the mindless disorientation that his head seemed to present. The lass that minded the tavern took him aside one night while the Knights were drinking and he confessed to her his symptoms.  
  
“Seems as though you might hit manhood soon, m’boy,” the feisty redhead replied with clear and easy amusement. She slapped him hard on the back. “Enjoy it. And don’t you be worrying about anything those Knights of yours say to you. Just let it pass.”  
  
It wasn’t quite such a clear and simple issue. Galahad found himself eager to work off his aggression, no matter the method. He began to earn his scars from the various other knights, a task both Lancelot and Bors seemed keen to volunteer for. Gawain still tried to spar with him as much as possible, but was endlessly kind to Galahad and never followed through with his blade, not marring his skin once.   
  
But there were mornings where Galahad would awake, drowsy and heavy-lidded to feel a heavy weight pressing into his stomach and a clear ache lower in his body, his cock throbbing with the need for release. He found that rough strokes by his hand brought him quickly to a climax in the hidden shadows of the forest, and he prayed to the gods that Tristan was not out scouting.   
  
There was also the keen edge of confusion that accompanied the changes. He felt indignant towards each and every man he counted as a friend when they lobbed their teasing remarks Galahad’s way. They had all been down the very path he was just starting now, but every cut stung him deeply and none hurt so much as the ones from Gawain because he had no right to tease Galahad so, only two years his elder.   
  
“Pains in the lower countries lately, Galahad?”  
  
“If our Galahad is a man now, he really ought not to wear that flimsy skirt he loves so much.”  
  
“Tristan, could you tell that hawk of yours to quiet down with that incessant squawking and squealing. Oh…begging your pardon. It’s only Galahad.”  
  
It was going to drive him mad.   
  
But what was worse was the desire. There was no quelling it, it seemed. For every time Galahad brought himself over the edge with a climax, he found himself needing more. His eye began to stray around the outpost, settling on any figure that was appealing, the buxom women, the fair heads of the town, and though he was slow to admit it, once in a while, he drank in the sight of a fellow man’s scar-dappled chest.   
  
Mad, he’d be. Past the edge of sanity and all its settlements.   
  
And of course, the paranoia that came with this affliction was terrible as well. It seemed as though all eyes were upon him, watching his every move and waiting for him to do something irrevocably stupid. He felt it the worst with Gawain. It seemed that lately, he could not pry Gawain’s gaze from him with the effort of a thousand men. He rolled his eyes, he stormed off, and he kept a short temper, yet Gawain persisted on.   
  
Dagonet kept a watchful gaze on him, and Arthur stepped up his training as though sensing that Galahad needed some form of release. He was getting better with the sword, so Arthur had handed him a shield, saying that the best warriors could transform a defensive weapon into an offense. Bors was letting him share in the joys and spoils of manhood more often, and Lancelot had decided that the young Galahad’s ears should no longer be shielded from harsh words and lewd remarks. Galahad thought that, perhaps, he owed Tristan his life, for he had said nothing, had offered nothing, but had only given Galahad a dagger one morning, quietly commenting about ‘the rites of passage when a boy becomes a man.’  
  
Gawain though, was the one who was going to drive Galahad mad, the one who would not stop watching.   
  
And then one morning while they were scouting in the woods, it happened.   
  
Galahad awoke, and in the process of his morning rituals, he noticed that the smooth slope of his cheek was dappled with the rough stubble of hair. His eyes widened and he had sat up in a flurry of movement, alerting Arthur and Tristan that something was wrong.  
  
“What is it?” Arthur murmured, sleep hanging off the edges of his voice.  
  
“I…” Galahad started, and swallowed his words. “Nothing. It’s nothing, sir.”  
  
He lay back down, but there was a hand clamping on his shoulder and pulling him up to his feet. It was Lancelot, and he was inspecting his face, laughing with shrewish delight. Galahad really wanted to hit him. Everyone seemed to be roused from sleep now. Bors rubbed his eyes, quickly adjusting to the situation, and Galahad observed that he was earning himself a good crowd. Gawain pushed through and ran a flat palm over the stubble, laughing to himself and shaking his head in wonder.  
  
“Well now, it’s finally happened,” he turned and announced to the collective Knights. “Our Galahad is becoming a man!”   
  
“Say goodbye to boyhood, Galahad,” Lancelot announced, letting go of him finally and turning him loose so that everyone could have their fair chance inspecting him. Bors stepped up, clapping a strong hand on Galahad’s shoulder – something that he visibly shook from. Galahad had no false ideas about his strength matching Bors’ in any way.   
  
“And say hello to the damned middling years. Transition, embarrassment, and the desperate need to sate your pleasure with anything that moves,” Bors growled. Galahad bit back the urge to tell Bors that he already knew quite well about the frustration that gnawed at him.   
  
Gawain smirked, scratching the side of his face and his own beard by extension. “I volunteer Tristan’s hawk for the duty,” he replied airily between light chuckles. Galahad glared at him, and didn’t even notice that Lancelot was speaking until mid-sentence.   
  
“…ought to be, I nominate Gawain for the task,” Lancelot was saying cheerfully in a mischievous tone. Galahad snapped his gaze straight over to glare at Lancelot and barely caught that tiny knowing set that Lancelot had to his face, the one that held knowledge that Galahad could only guess at. There were questions there, and answers that he wasn’t quite sure he wanted yet.  
  
“What!” Gawain was protesting, his eyes wide and panic written on his face. “You can’t…”  
  
“Seconded,” Tristan interrupted, petting the hawk’s beak affectionately.   
  
And then, of all people, the reply to this madness came from Arthur himself. “Then I find this in effect,” he announced in a booming voice of authority, smacking his fist into the palm of his hand.   
  
For a moment in time, everything stopped before the incredulity of it all caught up to Galahad and he felt himself returning to the normalcy of time and the world. Galahad felt relief and laughter wash over him as he let himself finally plunge into the depths of the mockery his affliction had earned him, and to his delight, the Knights joined him in his laughter. Galahad stroked the new stubble, wondering how long it would take to earn a respectable beard, his thoughts interrupted by the sheer amusement of the situation, his serious moments broken with laughter.   
  
It was only as he prepared to start his day that he took notice that Gawain was not laughing in the least. That was the precise moment before he noticed Gawain stomp off into the woods.   
  
***  
  
Galahad, when he remembered to take the time, counted his blessings.   
  
He was quite lucky that in the time of his transition, they did not have to lead any campaigns against the Woads, nor defend themselves from the odd skirmish that the Saxons led and there hadn’t been any uprisings within the ranks of Romans at the village. That time would not last forever, and he knew it well. The winter in which Galahad had spent fifteen years upon the earth was the first time he had ridden into battle alongside the other knights rather than run ahead to scout out the territory and return to find the battle over and done.   
  
Time had run a scythe through the ranks of the knights, whittling their number down until they were a lean and sparse group of friends and brothers. Galahad had mourned Percival with great sorrow, not moving from his grave until Gawain, Tristan and Dagonet had forcibly removed him and locked him in Arthur’s room, thus forcing Galahad to listen to the tales of fallen knights and the weakness of the human condition.   
  
It made Galahad cling to life, and fear much more so for the remaining knights. He could not lose them without feeling another part of him drift away. And so, with this first battle, which was more of a tactical defense really, according to Arthur, he vowed to let no one slip away.   
  
This was to be his first fight. He was to take that last step away from boyhood and learn the true brutalities of battle now. As they charged against the vicious Woads, it seemed that time slipped away. He took his lessons to heart and was a fierce fighter. He did not falter once at the war cries of the Woads, and he was aggressive with both his sword and his shield, holding mercy for none that attacked him. It seemed as though his years of training and his sparring all came to fruition now as he became a force of nature, striking down attacks with swift blows and gracefully avoiding injury.   
  
It was as the fog was seeping in that Galahad first plunged his sword into the heart of a Woad, seeing the look in his eyes as the Briton took his last breath and surrendered to death. Galahad stood there frozen, his sword in shaking hands as he reclaimed it – stained heavily with blood – and did not move, even as the body in front of him crumpled to the ground. By the yells of victory from Bors, the battle was over.   
  
Still, Galahad could not move.   
  
He stumbled backwards and into a warm body, jerking around to see that it was Gawain, with blood that was not his own on his armour, a pleased grin to his face. Galahad felt sick to his stomach and never did he think he could associate Gawain with that feeling of sickness. He opened and closed his mouth, trying to form adequate words, but his mind would not work and his hands would not stop shaking.  
  
“Gawain. I…” he trailed off, hanging his head low, knowing this was another step down another path he could not turn back from. He felt rage build in him as he realized that this would not be the last life he would take and that there were hundreds more in an endless sea of anonymous faces that were lives waiting to be plucked by his sword, by his bow, and by his shield.   
  
“Galahad!” he announced delightedly. It seemed to garner the attention of some of the other knights. It also seemed that Lancelot had taken an arrow to his thigh, the way he was limping so with that scowl on his face. Gawain tried to grab for his arm, but Galahad recoiled. “Your first kill,” he went on in that same damned voice of pure delight as though this were his initiation, as though it were something to be proud of. He grasped Galahad’s wrist and pumped it into the air. Bors was chuckling happily, and Dagonet had his head bowed low, murmuring something.  
  
Galahad was sure that Gawain was going to feel the way his hands were shaking now, there would be no missing it. The thrill of battle always seemed to leave Gawain exuberant and energetic, the rush of adrenaline pumping through his veins. Usually they would go to the tavern at the outpost – or any watering hole they could find – and drink away their post-battle stimulation. Galahad pulled away once more.  
  
“Galahad, come!” Gawain cheerfully laughed. “I’ll even buy you the first drink in commemoration of…”  
  
Galahad stormed away, unable to listen to any more of this. He made sure to not go into the woods, aware of the never-ending ridicule he would endure and the lectures from Arthur on his safety. He was a fifteen-year-old man, for pity’s sake, not some idiot child. He made his way to the outer wall of their outpost and paced around it, finding solitude against the bark of a tree, letting his back hit the wood and sliding down slowly, his sword in his lap and his hands shaking. He closed his eyes tightly and tried to breathe in and exhale again, hoping that no one had followed him.   
  
It was a thought in vain, he knew. He heard the snapping of twigs that warned him of someone’s approach. He slowly got to his feet, a gesture that was unwelcome by his body, but necessary. He opened his eyes to find Gawain approaching with deft sureness to every step. Galahad shook his head, his shoulders slumped in defeat as he stepped away from the trunk of the tree and raised his sword, keeping its point in front of him.   
  
His hands were not shaking now.  
  
Gawain slowly raised his hands in surrender, but Galahad did not drop his sword. He kept it trained neatly to the middle of Gawain’s chest and glared at him, his patience thinner than it had been in years and anger welling up inside him. After a silent moment, Gawain standing in surrender and rage building in Galahad, he threw his sword to the ground and did the only thing he could think to do. He lunged forward, attacking Gawain with a blow to the face, before feeling his knees give out from under him.   
  
And there, on the grasses as Galahad could not stand on his own two feet, it was Gawain that caught him. He comforted the fall as they sank down to the ground, Galahad on his knees and trying in vain to push away from Gawain.  
  
“Stop it,” he murmured in protest. He had attacked Gawain, his friend. There would likely be some form of a mark in the morning, and yet Gawain was still comforting him, by his side. “Stop…why won’t you leave me!”  
  
“Galahad, it was your first life. There will be many more,” Gawain replied simply. “It’s a rite of passage. A cause to celebrate.”  
  
“It was a human life. I took it!” Galahad protested, his voice hoarse. He could feel his hands begin to shake again, and he willed them to stop. With everything in him, he willed them to stop. “I killed a man, Gawain. It could have…it may have been someone’s father…brother…”  
  
“He died, so you could live,” Gawain replied, and this time, Galahad did not miss the intensity of those words. He was opposite of Galahad, on his knees so that their heights did not differ in the least. One hand rested on Galahad’s upper arm, clinging to him tightly and pressing even tighter as he emphasized every word he spoke. Galahad let himself be shaken, felt the weariness of battle sink into him.   
  
“I’m no one’s father, nor brother,” Galahad muttered, his eyes downcast.  
  
And now the hand on Galahad’s shoulder was pressing so tightly that Galahad was sure there would be a mark there in the morning. The words came fiercely and swiftly now, spoken quietly and with such confidence that there was no doubt to them.   
  
“But you’re ours,” Gawain caught Galahad’s eyes, using his other hand to grasp Galahad’s chin and prevent him from tearing his gaze away. “A Knight. You belong to  _us_.”  
  
“And who shall take my life so that you might mourn me?” Galahad muttered drearily.   
  
“None,” Gawain said defensively, tugging him closer and merely grasping his armour now, his hands on Galahad’s arms. “So long as you fight by my side, I alone shall decide when your time has come.”   
  
Galahad felt his anger and his fear leave him in a rush as all the muscles in his body gave out and simply ceased to move. He sat there, unable to move as Gawain gathered him closer and closer into an awkward hug. Gawain ruffled Galahad’s hair and gave a morbid laugh.  
  
“I’m just getting used to you,” Gawain said, and his voice shook just as Galahad’s own hands had shaken earlier. “Why would I allow you to depart from us so soon? Besides, Tristan would have my head. All those lessons for naught.”  
  
In the mirth, Galahad found a laugh deep inside him and nodded slowly, pulling away from Gawain and gathering his sword as he slowly rose to his feet.  
  
“I’m sorry for hitting you,” Galahad ducked his head down and said.   
  
“Yes,” Gawain said simply. “Don’t tell the others I said this, but I suppose I had it coming.”  
  
That evoked a true laugh from Galahad, and he felt his strength slowly returning to him, the dead face from before fading in his memory as though it were a bad dream. Gawain clasped his arm and nodded towards the village. Galahad turned to look there and shook his head, meeting Gawain’s gaze and knowing he would understand.   
  
“You sure you won’t join us?” Gawain had to ask.  
  
“The only joining he’ll be doing is the march!” a foreign voice announced. It was Tristan, come riding up on his horse with a grave set to his face. “Arthur says we have to move East for a few days, track the Woads and see if we can’t protect the next village over. The name Merlin passed his lips.”  
  
“We’re not…” Gawain began, his gaze going to the side to meet Galahad’s for a moment. They stood side by side, looking up at Tristan. “We’re not tracking Merlin, are we? I never thought Arthur was mad.”  
  
“Not Merlin,” Tristan replied simply. “But the chances of the Woads attacking the next Roman settlement in their retreat is nothing to suppose. They will rebel in their movement.”  
  
“We ride,” Gawain settled for saying, looking to Galahad, seemingly checking for signs that he was fine. Galahad nodded, taking the first step forward and sheathing his sword as he began to make his way back to the battlefield where he had last seen his horse. Behind him, Gawain trailed.   
  
“We ride,” Galahad confirmed quietly.   
  
***  
  
The Roman village to the East was a day’s ride, and Arthur had given the call that the Knights were to camp for the night, citing a need to attend to bruises and wounds from the battle, a sharp and reprimanding look sent Lancelot’s way. Around the fire later that night, as they shared a measly and stale loaf of bread, they sat in silence, listening to the flames crackle.  
  
“Lancelot didn’t tell Arthur,” Dagonet said simply when Arthur dragged Lancelot away, their voices loud and angry.   
  
“The wound in his thigh?” Gawain asked.  
  
Dagonet nodded.  
  
“You are not my keeper!” Lancelot was shouting in the gathering of trees near them, by the river’s side. “Why should I report my every moment to you? You are not my keeper and I am not a child!”  
  
Galahad grimaced. It would be no hard task for any enemies to track them with the noise they were making. He hoped that Tristan would return with the news that they were leagues ahead of any enemies, because the way this was going, a night attack was going to be inevitable.  
  
“You are a Knight!” Arthur snapped back. “My Knight, and I will not have you tolerate in silence when you are suffering! You must tell me when you are wounded!”  
  
“Are my wounds to be your responsibility? Did you pray to your God and is that what he told you to do? Leave me be,” Lancelot replied snidely. “I will suffer this, and it will be a suffering that you will have no part in.”  
  
“Lancelot, I ask you…”  
  
“Let me be, Arthur,” Lancelot shouted wearily. “Go!”  
  
Yet, neither Arthur nor Lancelot joined them around the fire. Galahad sat there, gnawing on the hard bread under Gawain’s watchful gaze as though he were expected to go off again and lose his wits for the second time in a day. One by one, the Knights turned to sleep, but Galahad did not succumb to the same fate, for fear of nightmares. He doused the fire and got up to walk the borders of their camp, intending to search for scouts and find if anyone was tracking them.   
  
What Galahad found, though, he had never expected.   
  
He froze before he went down to the river’s edge where Lancelot and Arthur had battled with their words earlier, staying quiet and keeping true to his best scouting instincts. There, in the moonlight, were two bodies. The shadows of night were marred by brilliant and bright bursts of moonlight through the trees that made that secretive scene upon the river more than private to Galahad's eyes.   
  
Down in the beams of the moon, Arthur was slowly undressing Lancelot, delicately laying the armour to the side and dressing the wound. Lancelot threw his head back to the sky and his breath came out in jagged little bursts, seen in the cold of the night as Arthur traversed his mouth down the side of Lancelot’s neck, his hands carefully amassing near the wound, but careful to never touch it.  
  
Galahad was frozen in fear, watching the scene before him. He knew this must be some form of release. He knew it well. In the past year, he himself had found it in the back rooms of girls in the village when the desire became too much. Once, Dagonet and Bors brought him a whore that had taken one look at Galahad and announced she would do it simply for the experience and Galahad need not pay.  
  
But this…  
  
This was…  
  
He did not understand. He could not. What honour lay there in intimacy with a fellow comrade? His eyes would not move as Arthur’s lips paused and pressed against Lancelot’s collarbone, touching gently before he sunk down to his knees, Lancelot stopping him in his descent. They were still for a moment before Lancelot brought Arthur closer to him, murmuring soft words in the night as they clung to each other and though there was no wind to carry sound, Galahad was sure he heard the guttural sound of Arthur in a desperate voice swearing to his god, “mine, Lord, my God. Mine.”   
  
And then they sank to their knees. In Galahad’s hazy mind, he recalled a similar motion that very day, when Gawain had caught him. But here, here and now, it seemed that they were catching each other. They did not move, but their fingers were frantic against each other’s body, one of Lancelot’s hands slipping inside the waistband of Arthur’s breeches.   
  
Galahad finally found the strength to move, and broke away. He breathed out, exhaled for the first time it seemed since he had stumbled upon the scene. He took ragged breaths and forced himself back to where the other Knights were sleeping. In his brain, logic and all manner of sense had been lost and he found himself at a loss for any explanation or comprehension of what he had seen.  
  
He could not understand.   
  
And yet, as he settled down to sleep in the fog of night, there was a deep ache to his bones. It was a deep ache in his heart that quietly made a plea for something similar. Anything to tide over the cold grasp of night and protect him from the harsher light of morning. Should the solace prove to be more long-lasting, more satisfying than it did with the girls of the village, perhaps then, Galahad would finally know some form of relief from the perpetual desire that coursed in his blood.   
  
As he settled down on the frozen ground, he shivered slightly and forced himself to close his eyes and not see the images of that day, not the man whose life he had taken, nor the desperate need on Lancelot’s face, nor the calm desire that Arthur wore.  
  
Galahad drifted off to a blank sleep, feeling colder than ever before.   
  
When he roused himself to waking in the morning, snow was falling slowly and he was being watched. He rubbed at his eyes and brushed away the snow that had nestled in his curls before sitting up completely to find Gawain chewing thoughtfully and watching him.   
  
“Are we moving yet?” Galahad asked, his voice still heavy with sleep. He sat up slowly, to see Gawain shake his head. “How late in the day is it?”  
  
“Still early,” Gawain reassured him. “Dagonet is tending to Lancelot’s wound, and Arthur is nowhere to be found. You have time.”  
  
Galahad shifted under his blanket and felt his face flush with embarassment. His cock was painfully hard, a symptom of the morning he was not enjoying. He wondered if Gawain had noticed his predicament, and he tried valiantly to hide it. He covered himself with his hands and waited for Gawain to move first, but he wouldn’t. He merely sat there, watching Galahad.  
  
“Well?” Galahad snapped finally. “Leered enough, yet?”  
  
Without a mind to his condition, he got up and made his way to his armour to suit up for the day, turning away from Gawain. He hastily set about preparing for the day, the thoughts of Arthur and Lancelot lingering in his mind as he got everything on and cleaned off his sword. The blood was still there, darkened now and still staining his blade. Once again, against his will, Galahad’s world had changed.   
  
They trekked East, the days growing colder and colder. Snow fell and obstructed their path. More than once, Galahad felt pity for his steed, knowing that the difficulties had multiplied since they had set out. As always, Gawain rode beside him. The promise from yesterday was still fresh in Galahad’s mind, and he wondered idly if Gawain inteded to stay true to it, and protect Galahad. Ahead of them, Lancelot and Arthur rode in silence, and Tristan had gone ahead.  
  
Behind them, Bors and Dagonet chattered on about the children back home, going on about how Vanora might be in a condition to yield a third soon. Galahad shifted uncomfortably, feeling the silence press at him like a weight, heavy and painful. He finally resolved to put the morning, the past night, and the past day’s events out of mind and sight, but for a little.   
  
“Just think,” he mused, loud enough for only Gawain to hear. “We’re approaching the half point of our service. Half our freedom is within our grasp.”  
  
“Freedom,” Gawain snorted, something that sounded like he had been taking lessons from his horse. “Nothing more than a pretty little tale. Like all those fairy tales that you hear Arthur going on about. His god, and his miracles, and this life of servitude to a faith that gives nothing back.” He shook his head. “Freedom,” he scoffed. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”  
  
Galahad paused, unsure of how to respond. “You speak of freedom as though it were a myth.”  
  
“To me, it's little more than that. A lovely myth told to placate a lonely heart,” he added bitterly, riding up forward and away from Galahad before he could even think to formulate a reply.  
  
It was strange that in all the years that had passed, and with all the things they knew of each other, there were still secrets left hidden between Gawain and Galahad, and that Galahad didn’t have the slightest idea if he would ever know them all.   
  
Perhaps it was better that way.  
  
*  
  
For Galahad’s celebration of his birthday, the seventeeth now, the Knights had taken him out to the woods. There were but seven of them left now. Bors had brought the ale with him, and together they drank in quiet solitude. Rowdy celebrations tended to end in mishaps, and the years of slaughter and battle had finally begun to wear on them.   
  
The peace and quiet was welcome. With years gone by, Galahad began to understand more and more, and his hands no longer shook when he claimed the lives of his enemies. It was beginning to be  _normal_  in a terrifying and frightening manner. He drank his ale quietly, Gawain close to him and telling him a tale of the Saxon he’d witnessed Tristan kill with naught more than his bare hands and his shield. In hushed tones, they conversed, glad for their proximity. The years had tempered out Galahad’s desire, turning it into a slow burn of need rather than the desperate bursts of lust he had first experienced.   
  
“Happy birthday, Galahad,” Lancelot murmured, lifting his cup to him before rousing himself from his seat. “May you have all the best, and let no one kill you this coming year.”  
  
“Lest you be so annoying, one of us has to do the job ourselves,” Tristan interrupted.   
  
“A possibility,” Gawain chimed in with a grin and a loud laugh. He saluted Galahad with his mug. “To our Galahad, the youngest, most stubborn, impatient bastard we’ve ever had the malfortune of meeting.”  
  
Galahad glared.  
  
Gawain just smirked and continued. “And yet, we endure him.”  
  
“Love him, even,” Arthur interrupted, his voice heavy with irony. “Strange that he wasn’t kicked out of the camp but a week after he stole rations from the Roman soldiers. Lucky that Gawain took a shining to him, and had a talent for being quick-witted.”  
  
“Even luckier that the brat’s arse never connected with my foot,” Bors spoke between a deep belch. “Another year!”  
  
“To Galahad,” Gawain announced, lifting his mug up. The others followed suit and echoed the sentiment with great care to their words.   
  
Galahad nodded with thanks, and watched as their group disbanded. Lancelot made his way back to the village, with Arthur in tow. Dagonet was inquiring about the children, and Bors made many noises as to their growth and their skills as fighters. There were six now, a maddening number, and Galahad pitied himself the days he drew the short straw and had to mind the bastards. Gawain clapped a hand on his shoulder as he drained the last of his ale and steadied himself as he got up, eyes down on Galahad. He leaned over and pressed his lips to the top of Galahad’s head of hair.  
  
“I wish you well,” he murmured, stumbling off towards the village, leaving Tristan and Galahad behind. Galahad watched Gawain go until he was but a shadow in the night before he turned back to Tristan’s watchful eye. He shifted uncomfortably under the scrutinous gaze and tipped back his mug, drinking the last of the liquid.   
  
“You’ve been improving with the bow,” Tristan remarked. “I thought maybe you were ignoring my lessons. That was saddening me for a great many minutes.”  
  
“You’ve the best advice,” Galahad commented, his gaze drawn back to the village. He slowly stood, feeling the ache in his legs. “It was a good celebration.”  
  
“They always are. It doesn’t matter how the occasion goes, the only thing that matters is that you’ve survived another year,” Tristan said, sitting perfectly still upon the log in the forest. “I hear that Bors has paid for a lass to bed you.”  
  
“It was his gift,” Galahad explained half-heartedly. “I told him I’d be happier if he’d clean his own blasted horse and armour once in a while. Besides, the poor girl was just doing it out of kindness. I sent her home.”   
  
“You’ve been doing that quite often,” Tristan remarked with a mysterious little smile on his face. Galahad froze, raising an eyebrow and turning his full attention to the Knight. “Sending them home, that is. You’ve still taken a few to your bed, but nowhere near the number we’ve expected.”  
  
“You…why do you notice these things?” Galahad replied warily, his voice breaking slightly. “It’s not as if I’ve done anything wrong, and it’s certainly none of your business whom I bed!”  
  
“No,” Tristan agreed, a slight chuckle. “No, not at all. I merely notice.”  
  
“You notice  _everything_ ,” Galahad accused childishly. “There’s not a mouse that can get past you, and you remember everything twice as well as you notice it.”   
  
“I haven’t wronged you,” Tristan rolled his eyes. “I’m being your friend, Galahad. Accept it as such, or else I really will have to kill you and then tell the rest that Woads mysteriously ventured to the walls and plucked you away.”   
  
“And what friendliness do you have to offer?” Galahad continued on hesitantly.   
  
“My noticings and remembrances,” Tristan replied lightly. “Gawain has taken quite the shining to you over the years. An affinity even.”  
  
“Yes,” Galahad said.   
  
“It would be a shame if you two ever drifted as friends.”  
  
“Tristan, if you don’t start making sense, I will have to drag Arthur out here to curse you to God, or some other such deity he enjoys so much,” Galahad exhaled, feeling more exasperated than he had but a few moments past. “What are you trying to say?”  
  
“You’ll see,” Tristan remarked, getting up gracefully. “You’ll see for yourself soon enough.”   
  
He left Galahad in the light of the moon to let the words sink in, the torches burning brightly at the walls of the village and the mark of age hanging upon his head. He had been in this service for eight years now, and freedom was still far off, the sweet reward at the end of the long journey. Maturity was settling nicely in him, battles never taking away from his conscience. He still retained his morals and never did he kill without being attacked first – something Tristan often indulged in – and he held tight to his responsibilities as one of Arthur’s Knights.   
  
Yet, there was not completion within him.   
  
He slowly began to make his way past the sentries and the gates into the village to find some of the Knights assembled at the tavern, Vanora singing a song in her clear, angelic voice, and Gawain nursing two mugs of ale. He sat beside Gawain, and chuckled to himself when the second mug was slid over to him silently, a knowing grin on Gawain’s face.  
  
“Happy birthday,” Gawain commented quietly.   
  
“Happy indeed,” Galahad laughed, taking a sip and turning to watch Dagonet fight with Gilly and take a savage beating by the fists of the young boy. They both laughed together as Dagonet went down to the ground, pummeled by the brazen fists, and Bors watched with pride.   
  
He turned to the two of them and nodded.  
  
“You two joining me and Dag tomorrow? We’re heading out to the cliffs, see if we can’t improve our range with the arrows,” Bors asked, swaying his second-youngest around in the air as he spoke. “Tristan said he’d seen some Saxons doing some scouting, and we figured it’s as good a target practice as any.”  
  
Galahad opened his mouth to refuse, citing the need to rest for a few days. He had calluses on his fingers that were prone to never heal if he didn’t give them a few days of calm. Before he could speak though, Gawain opened his damned mouth.  
  
“We’ll go,” he nodded, clapping a hand on Galahad’s shoulder.  
  
Galahad turned and glared at Gawain, feeling betrayed. He shook his head and made a sound of disbelief before getting up and storming away, unsure of where he was going. He didn’t want to lock himself in his quarters like a petulant child, and he had a feeling Lancelot would not be around for a late-night conversation in which Gawain’s name was cursed many times.  
  
He was saved of making a decision when he felt a hand on his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks, and turning him around. He found Gawain standing there, a confused look on his face. Galahad felt the contact of his hand linger on him, and he felt a sharp burst of the lust he thought had turned into a low simmer over the years. This was not supposed to happen. Gawain was but a year away from leaving his years as a middling boy, and Galahad was two years behind him.   
  
“Don't speak for me,” Galahad said indignantly. They were in the square, and above them, the guards were switching their shifts.   
  
Gawain’s face remained serious, but his tone was light. “And why not?”  
  
“It presumes that you know me well enough to do so,” Galahad protested weakly, feeling the burn in his fingers as he spoke. He really did need the day off to rest his fingers, but a duty had been sworn. He was not about to back out now, not when he really did need the extra practice.   
  
Gawain gave an amused sound that sounded like laughter. It made Galahad even angrier with him. “But I do know you well enough to speak for you,” he replied logically with a careless shrug.   
  
“I'm not in your care. Do not speak for me,” he repeated in the best imitation of Arthur’s sternest voice he could produce.   
  
“Yes, of course,” Gawain replied airily, in a stupid, stupid mocking tone. He was always mocking Galahad. He took a step closer to Galahad, and ruffled his hand through his curls, brushing his thumb across and grabbing stray leaves that had fallen in his hair. Galahad wanted to be angry, he truly did, but the combination of the good day, and the good ale made his anger quick to dissipate.  
  
“You won't stop, will you?” Galahad gave a resigned sigh.  
  
Gawain was grinning unabashedly now. “Never.”   
  
“I thought as much,” Galahad grumbled, turning about and marching back to the tavern. “Come, if we don’t return, Bors will have stolen both our drinks.” He clapped a hand on Gawain’s back and led them both back into the tavern to find two drinks, weighing much less than they did when they had left the table.   
  
***  
  
Galahad’s year did not start in any enviable manner. Three weeks after his birthday, the Knights set out to ride for the West in an attempt to patrol the borders of Hadrian’s wall to drive away any invading Saxons or Woads who took it upon themselves to try and spread their domain. It meant another number of months in the wilderness, no food but the rations, no company but the other Knights and no weather but the harsh give of a land coming out of winter. And to Galahad’s discontent, it bore no different start to his year than any of the others.   
  
On this specific campaign, one thing had changed. Lancelot and Arthur had ceased to speak to each other when they set out from their outpost. Galahad had quite a few ideas on why this was, and he was sure that Tristan shared the ideas. The assembled rest of the knights seemed not to know what was going on, save for that Lancelot would go to no end to avoid answering Arthur’s questions, unless it had been a direct order.   
  
The first thaw had been a welcome sight, and the far better news was that not a single enemy had been seen since they had first left the village. Tristan came by in the morning and announced that he’d seen no one, and that no one was following. This was met with a warm reception from all but Arthur, who stormed away. Lancelot followed him.   
  
Galahad was sure that the day would most likely end better than it started. As he finished tying up the tents, he heard Gawain call for him right before he saw the sword that was tossed to him. His eyes widened as he caught the sword by the hilt and looked up to see Gawain, an eyebrow raised.  
  
“If they’re going to have their talks, we might as well train,” he offered. “After all, when we go into battle they can talk for their truces as much as they wish. You and I, we’ll just strike down our enemies.”  
  
“Sounds about right,” Galahad grinned.   
  
“There’s that face of cheer and happiness,” Gawain grinned in return, leading the way to a clearing nearby. “Galahad. Our beacon of light.”  
  
“Are you going to keep talking incessantly, or shall we train? Because you can join Arthur and Lancelot with all their talks if you insist on continuing,” Galahad said with an eye roll, unsheathing his sword and dropping his shield to the ground. Gawain gave a hearty laugh before grasping his own sword comfortably, assuming a battle stance.   
  
They circled around each other, meeting blades. Galahad spun away from the clashed swords and parried forward, cutting towards Gawain at the last fragment of the second – something that Gawain blocked with quick footing and a sure sword. They clashed swords once, twice, three times, and in the course of it all, Galahad lost his footing. It was a minor mistake in the land that Gawain used as an oppurtunity, spinning him around and resting the sword flatly against Galahad’s neck, his arm wrapped around his body, clasping him and restraining him from moving.  
  
Galahad sputtered and sighed.   
  
“You’ve not beat me yet,” Gawain reminded him, his voice right in his ear.  
  
“There’s a first time for everything,” Galahad grumbled.  
  
“You waste your time,” Gawain released him, dropping his sword to the side. He sidled up to Galahad’s side and stood at his back, wrapping his arms around him and resting them on Galahad’s lower arms. “All those wasted seconds you use to make your attacks fancier are going to get you hurt. Be quick with your wrist, don’t waste the seconds flaunting it about. And for pity’s sake, move quicker on your feet.”  
  
Galahad rolled his eyes, still annoyed when people told him what to do, regardless of the fact that he willingly listened and went along with the advice the majority of the time. He allowed the muscles in his arms to relax and let Gawain guide them.  
  
“Good,” Gawain murmured, stepping him forward. “Never circle your opponent and always, always make sure you have a clear path of escape. I don’t care if you’ve dug a hole that leads back to Sarmatia, if that’s the escape, so be it.”  
  
“I’m sorry, but didn’t Arthur teach me this years ago?” Galahad sarcastically bit at him.  
  
“Yes, well, now  _I’m_  teaching you,” Gawain retorted immediately. He made a small sound of amusment. “It’s funny, though.”   
  
“What is?” Galahad sounded with confusion. Gawain trained the sword, placing both of Galahad’s hands on the hilt. He felt Gawain’s foot nudge his ankle forward and he assumed battle stance, the sword ready in front of him. He sighed automatically at having to be told to do something before completing the task by leaning his weight backwards.  
  
“The way that…” Gawain began, but stopped, one hand firm on Galahad’s back. “Keep your back straight,” he sternly reprimanded. Galahad mocked him a moment before straightening his spine. “The way that Arthur and Lancelot dance around each other with such expert grace and advanced idiocy. I sometimes wonder if I’ll need to use my axe to the back of Lancelot’s head to give him some sense.”  
  
And there was a strange and terrifying moment in which Galahad realized that he knew something that Gawain didn’t. It did not occur very often, and in this case, he was sure that Gawain had at least some notion of what was going on. Gawain moved his hands to Galahad’s shoulders and ran them down his arms until they circled his wrists. Galahad shivered at the movement and allowed himself to go limp, watching the precise rhythm the sword danced with when Gawain guided it just so.   
  
“Gawain. If I knew something, would you want me to tell you?” Galahad asked apprehensively, relaxing in his battle stance momentarily.  
  
“Will it get me into trouble?”  
  
“I…”  
  
“Wait,” Gawain interrupted, his tone amused. “It’s you. Of course it will get me into trouble,” he gave a long, drawn-out sigh that was done utterly in mocking of Galahad and he knew it entirely. “What is it?”  
  
Of course the bastard still wanted to know. Curiousity killed much more than just the cat. “It’s not necessary for you to beat sense into Lancelot’s head,” Galahad said after a moment of deliberation as to how best put it in tactful terms.   
  
Gawain paused, but then there was movement again. One hand glided over Galahad’s mid-section, and the other clasped onto his wrist as Gawain led him forward in a quick parry. “And why…wait.” He paused. “Really?”   
  
Galahad turned in Gawain’s grasp on him and nodded. “For years now,” he confirmed.  
  
“How do you know?”  
  
Galahad paused now, trying to search again for tact. “I…well, I caught them once.”   
  
There was another silent moment between them, in which Galahad began to realize just how close Gawain was, and how every touch guided his body in perfect and poetic motion, as though he was born to be led by these two hands. Gawain rested his hands on Galahad’s shoulders, and Galahad relaxed his stance, awaiting a reply, waiting to be yelled at, and possibly waiting for questions.  
  
“It’s a way to find comfort,” Gawain quietly scoffed. “And here I thought them blind. Sometimes, it’s just needed after years in the cold, alone with no one that truly understands this life,” he went on in that same soft tone, and it seemed to Galahad that with every word, he was pressing closer and closer to Galahad.   
  
“Is it?” Galahad swallowed hard.   
  
Silence again.   
  
“If you ever want it of me…Galahad, I would be far more than willing to give you what you need,” Gawain was offering him things now. The words sounded…they sounded good to Galahad, already tired of the woods, and the wilderness, and the loneliness. “It wouldn’t be a chore.”  
  
“I think…” Galahad trailed off, his brain unable to form actual thoughts. There were consequences to this action as well, and he hadn’t in any actuality ever seriously thought about an endeavour as such with Gawain, not in waking dreams.   
  
“Are you blind to this too? You notice them, but not me?” Gawain voiced his incredulity.  
  
Now, Galahad pulled away, understanding this situation and exactly what Gawain was offering, but failing to find a true and desperate desire for it. Perhaps the panic had sent it skittering away for the moment, but search as he might, it was not there. There had been passing feelings in which he had hoped for it, but nothing so concrete as to wish this moment to have happened. Tristan’s words from weeks past came back to haunt his memory and the flicker of knowledge was sparked into a large flame.   
  
“Tristan noticed this,” he murmured. He shook his head, taking small steps backwards, and away from Gawain. “I can’t, Gawain. I hold you dear to my heart, and I count you as my best friend, but I cannot take this from you.”  
  
Gawain nodded, his expression blank. “So be it,” he quietly replied before picking up his sword and leaving the clearing. Galahad watched him go, his throat tightening as he did, and it was only when he was alone with the budding blooms on the trees that he sank down to the ground, his sword in his lap once more, and listened to his own heartbeat, seeking desperately to find reality in this muddle of confusion and offers.   
  
Resolutely, he pushed back any emotions that were surfacing and demanding that the issue be attended to, Gawain spoken with, and the matter dismissed entirely. There was no need.  
  
He got to his feet slowly and instead of heading back to their equipment, he circled the perimetre of the camp, looking for tracks and vowing to perhaps hunt something down to eat later on that didn’t taste of stale bread. As he made his way, he heard the echoes of voices.  
  
“You cannot control me,” it was Lancelot, his voice sharp and brazen as ever.  
  
“I do not wish to,” Arthur responded calmly.  
  
“You wish it with every breath! You would have me kept in a stable just as you keep the horses if it meant you keep me safe from harm,” Lancelot snapped. “Arthur, when I die, I will die. It will be of my own choosing, and it will be done with honour. I will not be kept away because you are afraid!”  
  
“And if I wish you safe from harm because I love you, what then?” Arthur yelled back. Galahad froze in his steps, unused to hearing such a loss of control come from Arthur. He clung desperately and tightly to the tree, the pieces of that same strange puzzle he had started by the riverside years ago coming together. “I will not have you risk your life for unnecessary deeds.”  
  
“You do not control my actions,” Lancelot replied calmly. “And if you love me as you say you do, you will let me choose my own path.”  
  
“I would let you go forever if it meant you were safe,” Arthur replied, calm again. “For I do love you enough.”  
  
“Arthur,” Lancelot was chuckling, and Galahad could hear Arthur’s soft laughter mixing in as well. “My Arthur. There are some ways of life that you will never truly learn. I will know you best until the end of our days, but still you will never learn.”   
  
“And the love I give to you?”  
  
“Is returned by me tenfold,” Lancelot replied swiftly. “For if you were less of an idiot about the world, you would already know that. Arthur, don’t pray to your god to keep me safe. Trust in me that I will keep myself safe because I don’t wish to be parted from you.”  
  
Another spot of laughter from Lancelot.  
  
“Not just yet, at least.”   
  
Galahad slipped away while their voices were quieting. He made it back to the camp, avoided meeting Gawain’s gaze and instantly volunteered himself for the night sentry, if only to keep himself attentive to other matters. Still fresh in his mind though, was the warm sensation of Gawain’s hands on his arms, and his voice hushed in Galahad’s ear.   
  
***  
  
Two days of trekking did not wear well on Galahad’s patience.   
  
Nor was the fact that Arthur and Lancelot were in good spirits again, kidding each other with light jokes and leading a merry charge across the frontier to track down their enemies and make sure they were staying away. For every smile Galahad saw on Lancelot’s face, and for every laugh of Arthur’s, he felt twice as miserable and upset. He trekked forward, pushing to the head of the pack with Tristan and helped scout out the road ahead more often, just to get away from all the blasted good cheer.   
  
It seemed Bors had quickly noticed the sour mood that Galahad was in, and during one of their breaks, he made a comment that turned everything both awry, and patched things up.  
  
“Well, you’d best cheer up boy, because there aren’t any whores around here to do it for you,” Bors had chuckled to himself.  
  
Tired of the situation, bitter at another jibe sent his way, Galahad rolled his eyes and didn’t think before he spoke. “No, the only thing close is Gawain.” Only after the bitter words had passed his lips did Galahad pale, his attention immediately turned to Gawain and he started in his place, ready to apologize. Before he could say a word though, a look flickered over Gawain’s face, the angriest look he’d ever seen on him outside of battle. It was barely seen by Galahad before he stormed off.   
  
“Best chase him down,” Dagonet nudged Galahad forward with a quiet murmur.   
  
Galahad stumbled to his feet and followed the footprints on the path, finally catching up as Gawain slowed down to a halt, bent over his knees as he turned slightly, and shook his head.  
  
“You…” he stood upright, his spine straight and a harsh glare directed right at Galahad. “You son of a whore, you miserable brat, there are no words for what you are,” he raged, taking steps towards Galahad.   
  
Gawain did not hesitate for a second before connecting his fist with Galahad’s face, sending him stumbling back. Gawain launched himself at Galahad, sending them both tumbling over the side of a gentle slope. Galahad wrestled to get free of the grip, managing to knee Gawain in the groin, but not before Gawain could land several more punches. With a a final punch to the side of Gawain’s face, he managed to pry him off of Galahad’s body.  
  
They lay there upon the dew on the ground, faces up to the sky, gasping for breath. Galahad frowned, feeling the sting of the blows and knowing that he would probably have bruises for a few days. Galahad turned slightly so that he could see the expression on Gawain’s face.  
  
“Are you still angry with me?” Galahad ventured hesitantly.   
  
“Of course, you idiot,” Gawain snapped at him. He brushed away the twigs that had fallen onto his chest as he sat up halfway and inspected himself before groaning and lying on his back again.   
  
Galahad sat up, his hands draped over his knees as he studied Gawain. “You haven’t killed me though,” he said with a shrug, offering one hand to Gawain to help him sit up. Gawain took it and gave him a terrible glare that made Galahad feel slightly weaker in stature than he had in many years.   
  
“All good things in time,” Gawain promised, brushing off his sleeves. “Besides, I had it in mind to get Tristan to do it, and make it less work for me.” He got to his feet and extended his hand to Galahad, who reached up to take it, but at the last second, Gawain pulled it back with a smirk. “Come, they’re probably worried about us.”  
  
Gawain grasped onto Galahad’s arm and hauled him up, brushing away the leaves that were on his clothing, and shaking his head as he looked down at the skirt that Galahad always chose to wear.  
  
“And when they ask of our bruises?” Galahad inquired.  
  
“We were attacked,” Gawain stated.  
  
“Yes,” Galahad shook his head as they began their ascent up the hill. “For that won’t cause unnecessary panic.”  
  
“Perhaps I won’t bruise, then it’s an easy explanation! You are quite clumsy,” Gawain cheerfully said, making it to the top and pulling Galahad up with him. They both made sure that they still had their weapons before heading back to the camp to find the rest of the Knights waiting for them, a displeased set to Arthur’s face.   
  
“Have you two kissed and made up?” Lancelot teased from behind Arthur. Gawain rolled his eyes, and Galahad massaged his jaw lightly, already feeling the soreness from Gawain’s punches. He noticed with smug satisfaction that Gawain was having slight trouble walking properly and hoped that the awkwardness would last for a day or so.   
  
Dagonet raised a curious eyebrow Galahad’s way, but he was too busy massaging his jaw to notice. Bors nudged his elbow into Gawain’s side, an action that got a wince out of Gawain. They were assembling to continue on westward, finishing up their circle before returning back.   
  
“If you say another word, I’ll beat you,” Gawain tiredly threatened Lancelot as he grasped a bundle in his arms and began to load up his horse. “With the dull side of my axe blade.”   
  
Galahad pulled Dagonet aside, and quietly inquired as to when they would pass a flow of ice or anything else that was particularly cold, explaining that Gawain had landed a few well-placed punches before they could reach a temporary truce. Dagonet nodded with quiet understanding and promised to get him something when they camped at nightfall. As they saddled up and prepared to pull away, Galahad caught Gawain’s gaze and gave him a slight smile.  
  
“The sun shines again,” Gawain commented as they pulled away from their encampment.   
  
***  
  
“If you insist on that move, Galahad, for god’s sake, at least use your shield to protect yourself,” Arthur shouted down from the top of the watch. “Unless, of course, your will is to be killed by anyone with two eyes that can see the large opening to attack.”  
  
“Yes, Arthur,” Galahad briefly paused to speak to him before returning his attention to Gawain’s ready sword. He gave a brief, cocky grin to match the one on Gawain’s face as their swords met above their heads, the shield protecting Galahad’s body.   
  
One, Galahad counted. Two, the swords spun and clashed again. Three, Galahad turned right as Gawain slashed to his left. Four, that damned axe of Gawain’s was right where Galahad had spun off. It hovered in front of him, and for a moment, it looked as if it might leave a scar on his upper arm, but Gawain recoiled immediately.   
  
Galahad gave a frustrated sigh and tucked his sword away, stepping away so that Dagonet and Bors could have some time to train. He made his way through the courtyard and filed out the gates, heading towards the stables, but turning instead and pacing around the empty tables of the tavern. Quick footsteps were catching up to him, and of course, lo and behold, there was Gawain. Galahad turned, feeling his patience about to snap, his anger hot on his heels, and all common sense flew from his mind.  
  
“Why do you hesitate when we spar?” Galahad immediately spat angrily. Gawain frowned, following Galahad as he turned and paced.   
  
“I don’t!” Gawain protested.  
  
Galahad spun so that they were facing each other. “You do. I have the ghosts of a hundred scars you never gave me. No one holds back, save for you. If you mean to protect me, then  _hurt_  me. Do not coddle me! Scars are inevitable, and I would much rather have them by your sword. By your hand.”  
  
“I’ve killed many men,” Gawain began quietly, one hand reaching out to grasp Galahad’s wrist and restrain him from pulling away and storming off. Gawain caught Galahad’s gaze. “I’ve hurt more than I’ve killed. You will not be one of them.”   
  
Galahad snorted. “You do this in vain. I bear marks of Arthur. Of Lancelot and Dagonet. Bors has painted my flesh with scars, and I’ve a fair share from both Tristan and that damned bird.” He paused, and looked up, strangely feeling something akin to disappointment in him. “But not a scratch from you.”   
  
“No,” Gawain admitted, before confusion and amusement flickered over his face. “I didn’t realize that hawk was capable of scarring.”  
  
It was something meant to make Galahad laugh, to break the mood, and inject desperately needed humour into the moment. It did nothing for Galahad but make him feel a painful reminder of things past. He was so tired of it all, of dancing around subjects and emotions. Perhaps he had made a mistake in the clearing that day. That was not the issue for the moment though, and Galahad needed to stay true to that.  
  
He stepped closer, quietly speaking and with every word, placing the intensity of four men behind it, “Mark me, Gawain,” he moved even closer, Gawain’s hand still burning on his wrist. “Leave your legend,” he quietly urged.   
  
Gawain shook his head. “You refused it of me,” he replied just as quietly before turning and walking back to the courtyard, his steps slow and heavy. Galahad paused, closing his eyes tightly and sorting himself out before returning to join the rest of the men, now turned to archery and provoked by Bors’ young ones who were demanding, ‘Tristan! Tristan! The apple! Hit the apple!’   
  
Tristan obliged with a slight and confident grin, shooting three arrows in the same shot and managing to hit three pieces of fruit laid up side by side. Bors and Lancelot groaned together.   
  
“Making me look bad,” Bors grumbled.  
  
“And ruining the fruit,” Lancelot added woefully.   
  
Tristan calmly raised an eyebrow, lining up his bow and putting another arrow through the arrow in the middle apple, causing it to split from the feathers to the tip. He winked at Gilly before heading over to the apple, plucking the arrows out and taking a bite of it. The assembled knights stood there in amazed silence.   
  
“Now he’s just showing off,” Gawain muttered grumpily.   
  
“I’d like to see him hit that mark from further off. He’s so close, he can practically see the shine of the apple,” Lancelot added cockily, an unsure set to his face despite the confidence of his words.  
  
“Don’t worry,” Tristan commented as he chewed on the fruit. “I’m not trying to encroach on your masculinity, Lancelot. The other Knights do that far better than I could ever hope to.”  
  
He departed the courtyard with a wink, leaving a furious Lancelot in his path.   
  
Galahad remained on the outer flanks of the group, watching the scene, and wondering briefly just how long this too would last before battle could snatch another of them away. For a terse and miserable moment, he actually prayed to this supposed god that it not be soon, that it happen never, that they might be granted safe passage through this life.   
  
“Well,” Arthur’s voice broke into his thoughts. “Isn’t it time for Galahad’s weekly reminder of how much he misses home, and the grand tales of Sarmatia, a land spoken of so greatly, I am beginning to believe doesn’t quite exist.”   
  
“It does exist,” Galahad snapped back defensively, stepping into the inner circle. “And it’s far more hospitable than this British hell, and far more welcoming than your Roman civilization and culture.” He propped one foot up on a crate, and took out his knife, stabbing it into the wood before settling down on the crate and sitting beside it. He closed his eyes. “If I just concentrate hard enough, I can still smell the cooking of the women, I can still hear the familiar conversation. If I just…” he let his head tilt back slightly, a small smile on his face, “…if I just concentrate,” he went on wistfully, “I can see the land, and the faces, and hear my mother welcoming me home.”  
  
He opened his eyes and surveyed the faces of the Knights around him, all looking quiet and wistful themselves.   
  
“Sounds like some fantasy you’ve got there,” Gawain spoke up finally.   
  
“Speaking of fantasies,” Bors shook off the saddened set to his face and lifted up his child from the barrel she stood atop, putting her down on the ground, “I’m off to see my Vanora if we’re done here. I don’t suppose I can best Tristan with the bow, and Dag’s already left enough marks on me with his axe for the day.”  
  
“Knights, take rest,” Arthur commanded. He turned and gave a slight look of disquiet towards the outer wall. “Who knows when we shall be called into battle?” He clapped Dagonet on the shoulder before turning to head inside to his quarters. The rest of the Knights sat quietly, counting to themselves.  
  
It was ninety-two seconds before Lancelot followed him.  
  
Once he was completely out of hearing, Gawain chuckled to himself, holding out his palm. “Boys, I do believe I said it would be under two minutes,” he laughed to himself as Bors and Dagonet placed coins in his hand. Galahad rolled his eyes and flipped a coin over to Gawain, which was caught easily. The moment the assembled knights had found out about Lancelot and Arthur – not by Galahad, he was glad to be able to withstand his virtue on that front – it had become a game to them, Gawain in particular. The most aggravating part though was that Gawain had a tendency to  _win_.   
  
It made Galahad wish he’d never shared his knowledge.  
  
***  
  
The fateful day that Galahad would never truly forget came soon after Arthur’s proclamation that battle could be anywhere around the corner. It was as though he had invoked a curse as he spoke those words.  
  
It was a forceful hand to his shoulder that woke him. Galahad sat up slowly, sweat sticky on his body, and rubbed his eyes. “What is…” he started to speak, but it came out hoarse, deep, and cracked. He cleared his voice and tried to focus. This summer was particularly brutal with its heat, and Galahad had taken to sleeping in nothing more than a long pair of underwear. He grasped for his sleeping shirt and tried to wake up. “What’s going on?” he asked when he cleared his vision and found Gawain crouching beside him, a grave look on his face.  
  
“Woads,” Gawain said quietly. “Outside the walls.”  
  
“How many?”  
  
“A hundred,” Gawain replied. “Maybe more.”  
  
“That’s not so bad,” Galahad got up in search of his armour. Gawain was already fully dressed. “There are seven of us, but the Roman infantry ought to even…” he trailed off as he noticed the slow shake of Gawain’s head. “What?” Galahad asked, his voice gone quiet.   
  
“The Roman infantry is gone,” Gawain said, hanging his head. “They went East to evacuate a village and reclaim some artifacts for their precious Vatican,” Gawain spat out bitterly, spitting to the side and letting it hit the floor. Galahad was frozen, unable to do anything but stare down at the saliva on the ground.  
  
“Wait,” Galahad replied, his voice stricken with panic. “Wait, so it’s just…it’s just us?”   
  
Gawain nodded silently as Galahad suited up with his armour. Galahad turned and undressed, ignorant to whether Gawain was watching him or not. He grabbed his chainmail, suiting up and finally tugged on his skirt before turning to find Gawain staring at him darkly, his eyes deadened.  
  
“This is hopeless, isn’t it?” Galahad quietly commented.  
  
“So you’d think,” Gawain nodded in agreement.   
  
“Is there even a plan?” Galahad asked, putting on his boots and grasping for his shield. Gawain held out his sword to him, which he took and sheathed away before tucking his helmet under his arm. He and Gawain made their way out of Galahad’s room, hearing the odd silence of the village and the cries of the Woads from outside.   
  
Gawain gave a mirthless chuckle. “Arthur’s praying right now. Perhaps that will work.”  
  
“Has it ever before?” Galahad questioned, grabbing a bundle of arrows and setting them up on his horse. He gave him a good petting and a quiet whisper to subdue any panic before going about preparing.   
  
“We’re doomed,” Gawain replied simply.   
  
They made their way into the courtyard, and Galahad was pleased to see that the field was clouded in the smoke that came from the brush being burnt to make way for new crops. Smoke meant surprise attacks and an advantage. They met up with the other Knights, save for Arthur, and they stood there in a strange and heavy silence.  
  
Finally, Arthur exited from the stables, striding confidently.   
  
“Bors, Dagonet, Tristan,” he started, his words quick as arrows, “you three start up on the wall. There are a few villagers and soldiers left that will be there with you. You’re the archers. Lancelot and I will charge from the East with our horses, cut a path through them. Gawain, Galahad, you charge from the West while we turn about. Bors and Dagonet, you two will join us after we’ve made two passes each, but Tristan, you’re to stay and take care of their archers until the last possible minute.”  
  
“And is God to be with us?” Lancelot muttered bitterly to himself.   
  
“Yes,” Arthur replied confidently. He raised his swords. “Knights!”  
  
Outside the wall, the demonic cries of battle came, and Galahad shivered slightly as he mounted his horse, looking to Gawain for a moment and watching as Arthur performed the sign of the cross. Lancelot got on his horse and they stood in a line, watching as the other Knights clambered to the top of the wall with a meagre offering of soldiers and villagers willing to die for this cause.  
  
They stood in formation, their horses bristling, and the voices outside the wall louder and louder now. Arthur shook his head before putting on his helmet.  
  
“These aren’t normal Woads,” he commented. “There’s no organization, no plan to them. This is an attack from nowhere.”  
  
“You think them rebels?” Gawain voiced with incredulity.  
  
“Rebellious rebels,” Lancelot snorted, his horse snorting right after him. “There’s always something new.” With that, he nudged his horse over to the side, heading for the Eastern doors, led by Arthur. Galahad bowed his head, waiting for Gawain to take the lead, and following him as he led them towards the Western gates.  
  
“If it’s not so much to ask,” Gawain said quietly, his focus briefly flickering to the top of the wall, where the other Knights were preparing their bows. “Don’t die on me.”  
  
“I believe you promised to keep me alive,” Galahad replied swiftly, his tone dark. “I’ll be holding you to that.” The gates were opened for them by two young boys, and Galahad briefly recalled that he was that young once, though it felt like he had aged too quickly away from boyhood. He offered a smile to the boys and listened to the sound of the gate closing behind him, shivering once more because it had a finality to it.   
  
The screams were louder now. Gawain put on his helmet, and Galahad did so at the same time as they grasped the reins, sitting on the outskirts with their eyes on the wall, where the bows were being aimed towards the sky.  
  
“Let’s give them something to scream about,” Gawain commented, his face stern and set, his tone fierce. It sparked something within Galahad, and there was no more fear or doubt in him. In the distance, he saw the glint of sunlight off of Arthur’s raised sword and heard the deep cry of Bors, followed by one of Arthur’s. Galahad raised his own sword, quickly followed by Gawain and they let loose cries of their own as they gave a kick to their horses, setting them into motion.  
  
They carved a path through the smoke, and somewhere in the midst, Galahad parted from Gawain’s horse, cutting lower to drive his sword through the gathered crowds of Woads. Arthur was right. There was no organization to this. As they reached the other side, they waited a moment for arrows to rain down over their heads before charging forward once more. As they did, in Galahad’s peripheral vision, he noticed the front gates opening, and out came Bors and Dagonet.   
  
Still, the fight looked to be one-sided. And Galahad looked to be on the losing side.   
  
His horse raised up on its hind legs, tossing Galahad off. He grasped for his sword and shield, immediately clearing a path through the Woads, killing three men in the span of a minute alone. He saw Arthur fighting near him, on the ground and clearing a path with Excalibur, spilling the blood of many men at once. Galahad was concentrating on fending off two Woads at once when he heard the sickening crack of bone, and realized that it came from Arthur.  
  
His leader let out a great cry of pain, but instead of buckling down to his knees, he pressed on, fighting faster with more fury than before. All around him, Woads dropped to the ground, Tristan’s arrows a gift from the gods. Galahad found anger and fury deep within him and doubled his pace, attacking with both sword and shield now, ducking arrows from their few archers. He moved with grace as he fought, turning every lesson he had ever learned into a lethal offense.   
  
He saw Dag dragging a still Bors back into the village, and Galahad fervently hoped he was merely unconscious. Still, he let out a great cry and spun on his heel, catching a Woad by surprise, and using him as a human shield against an archer. He threw his shield to the ground before charging forward with his sword and slitting the archer’s throat.   
  
A great cry of panic came from one of the Woads, before that same Woad turned and began to run off. Galahad watched them go, striking down more of them even as they retreated. To his side, he saw Tristan, now in the thick of battle and wondered idly how much time had passed. Galahad raised his sword to strike down the Woad on his knees in front of him, but before he could, he felt a piercing pain rip through his chest.   
  
Galahad staggered backwards, his sword toppling from his hands as he looked down to find an arrow stuck in him in the dead centre of his chest, just to the right of his heart. He stumbled forwards now, falling to his knees and feeling his vision first blink with brilliant bursts of light, then begin to cloud with hazy darkness.   
  
He watched in great pain as Tristan hauled the Woad that had been on his knees to his feet, and before Galahad’s eyes, he heard the Woad beg for mercy as he surrendered. The Woad pleaded in the Knights’ tongue to be spared, begged for a life subservient to them, if only he could live.  
  
Galahad swayed on his knees, watching as the Woad begged and pleaded, and as Galahad watched, Tristan pushed him away slightly, lunged forward in the same graceful motion, and beheaded him with a swift strike.   
  
Galahad succumbed to the pain and keeled over, blacking out, the last memory in his mind the bloodthirsty look on Tristan’s face.  
  
*  
  
Galahad awoke to blurred faces and faded voices that drifted in and out of his consciousness. He tried to sit up, but two strong hands pushed him back down immediately, and he saw the blurred outline of Tristan and Gawain. Sweat dripped into his eyes, and he feld a cold breeze pass over his bare chest where he could see blood dripping freely from an open wound.  
  
“What’s…I…” he struggled to speak.  
  
“You should feel special, Galahad,” Gawain said, his voice pinched. It echoed and it sounded strange. “The Romans have returned just in due time to patch you up.” Then his face swirled and shook in Galahad’s vision as Galahad arched his back and gave out a great cry of pain and agony, the feeling almost too much to bear.  
  
“Is that…” he began, panting as he spoke, “supposed to be a comfort?”   
  
He was sure that Gawain was saying something in reply, but Galahad could hear nothing but the dull echo of silence as his world blackened once more and he drifted into nothingness.   
  
He came about again to find the surgeon wrapping him with a bandage and the stony, weary faces of Knights who had lost a man. Galahad sat up, finding there were cushions to prop him up. He frowned.  
  
“Is…is Bors all right?” he tentatively asked, afraid for the answer. Lancelot hovered by the entrance of the tent, while Tristan dipped a cloth in water, gathering the sweat off Galahad’s brow, and Gawain kept silent vigil beside the cot.   
  
“He’s fine,” Lancelot finally answered. “A blow to the head knocked him out.”   
  
Galahad gave a sigh of relief, something that sent a ripple of pain through him instantly. He sat up further, coughing hoarsely. Gawain pressed a hand to his back as Tristan continued to calmly wipe away any trace of sweat. He breathed heavily, finally settling back against the cushions. No one spoke.   
  
“Is everyone alive?” Galahad asked, afraid because the doomed look on their faces hadn’t disappeared yet. He looked to Tristan, who said nothing and his face gave away nothing either. Gawain was looking down, his face saddened. Once again, it was Lancelot who had the response. A simple nod. “Good,” Galahad coughed out.  
  
Gawain finally looked up and studied Galahad. “Arthur says we snatched victory from the hands of certain defeat. How does it feel?”  
  
“Oddly feverish,” Galahad replied in a strained voice, his body burning. “And possibly infected. Is it infected?”   
  
“The surgeon says it is, but then again, the surgeon is Roman, so you may just have syphilis of some sort,” Tristan replied, cleaning the cloth and handing it to Gawain before getting out a fresh cloth and beginning to dress the wound on Galahad’s chest. Galahad tried to sneak in a glance, but it was an attempt in vain.   
  
He lay back down and coughed again, a strange epiphany settling into his brain.  
  
“It feels like I’m dying,” he said coldly, in a knowing tone. He was not joking, nor was he trying to evoke a reaction, but perhaps it could have been taken as such.   
  
“Have you ever died before?” Gawain snapped at him, dabbing the cloth lightly against Galahad’s forehead. Gawain had blood all over his face and hands. When Galahad looked at the others, they also had blood and dirt covering their faces and bodies. And it still had the feeling of a funeral. Galahad felt dread creeping in and settling at the base of his spine.   
  
“No,” Galahad quietly replied, feeling all too much like his nine-year-old self again, chastised and in trouble.   
  
“Then you can’t know, now can you?” Gawain sharply added, pressing the cloth a little harder to Galahad’s forehead. Galahad sighed and laid flat on his back, the burning not subsiding at all, and a heavy weariness settling in on him. “Galahad, don’t…”  
  
But he was asleep before Gawain could finish.   
  
***  
  
In the morning, Galahad awoke to the sun shining in his eyes, the sound of birds chirping and the most beautiful look of relief he had ever seen on a person on Gawain’s face. He sat up slowly, his wound still aching, and his body sore. Behind Gawain, he saw Bors and Dagonet, fresh scars and bandages adorning them, and to his right, Tristan sat, feeding his hawk.   
  
He also awoke to the sound of violent yelling, as the flaps of the tent went flying and Arthur walked in, following by a storming Lancelot. Arthur had a splint on his arm, and Galahad instantly realized the bone he had heard snap on the battlefield had been Arthur’s arm. It didn’t take away from Arthur’s commanding presence in the least.  
  
“You're permitted to worry over me, but I cannot do the same for you?” Lancelot was hissing. He pointed vehemently towards Galahad on the cot. “Galahad nearly fell to death last night. Do you deny Gawain the right to worry? The rest of the Knights? Or do you just forbid it of me?”  
  
“I was fine,” Arthur replied, not bothering to look Lancelot in the eye.   
  
“But you were injured, and so I worry. You gave mercy to those Woads. Ten of them to the two of us, if they had wanted, they could have  _killed_  you because you were already weakened. Pardon me, then, for caring,” Lancelot snapped before storming out in the same heat that he entered with. Galahad sat frozen, the only feeling was the throbbing of his wound. His fingers twitched and hovered by it.  
  
For a moment, Arthur stood tall and held his ground.   
  
“I’m deeply glad you’re all right, Galahad,” he said quietly with deep sincerity and something resembling guilt in his voice before turning and following Lancelot outside. Galahad sat up, trying to get himself oriented and noticed that Tristan was sitting with a bandage draped over his shoulder, and that everyone looked worse for the wear.  
  
And he had nearly died.  
  
He frowned, searching their faces, but no one seemed forthcoming with words.   
  
“Did I nearly die?” he asked quietly, looking for the confirmation. He searched the eyes of his fellow Knights, not receiving anything in return. Gawain ducked his gaze away, avoiding Galahad’s intent stare.   
  
“Yes,” Tristan answered, his voice clear-cut and simple. “The arrow was infected and it seemed you would not live the night.” Galahad nodded painfully slowly, his hand resting protectively over his chest. There were still stray beads of sweat rolling down his face, the heat of summer not helpful in this case.   
  
“Oh,” Galahad replied calmly, feeling an idiotic and strange sense of peace at this confirmation. The most important thing was that he was alive, and he felt infinitely better than he did when he woke in a pained haze earlier. He glared at Gawain. “I told you it felt like I was dying,” he accused childishly.  
  
“Miserable brat,” Gawain weakly sounded, looking up and into Galahad’s eyes. Galahad did not break his gaze away, and merely clung to this life that was in front of him. “Don’t ever do that again,” Gawain muttered, lowering his head again.   
  
***  
  
It took a week before the surgeon would let him out of the medical tent, and even then Galahad had been advised to be extremely careful. The infection in the wound had been treated, miracles had been performed, and a slow course of healing was inevitable. Arthur had ordered that Galahad not train, nor ride into battle until he was fully healed. He had pouted, once again feeling all too young, but truly, he was glad for such an order.  
  
He would not admit it aloud, but the wound ached fiercely. He often found himself desperate to scratch it open until the blood poured out once more, cleansing him of this damned itch.   
  
Dagonet had threatened to bind his hands together with some of his rope, and the memory of that all-too-coarse rope that had tied him back one night when the Knights had tied him to a chair before setting two of the women from the village upon him was the only thing stopping him from re-opening the wound.   
  
Galahad still wandered about, feeling at a loss. He would await the Knights every day as they returned from the patrolling and in his time of healing, he learned to read the basics of Latin. His boredom began to gnaw at him after a week, however, and he began to feel the itch of being confined.   
  
In his quarters, under his cot, he had a pile of letters. All were addressed to his mother and each and every one of them was never sent. Galahad was writing another such letter when there was a knock at his door.  
  
“Enter,” he beckoned, not looking up from his quill. The door opened and swung shut, but no one said a word. Galahad put the quill and letter aside and looked up to find Gawain standing in his doorway. A strange mix of emotions rushed through Galahad, leaving him with a low simmering heat in the base of his stomach. “Gawain.”  
  
“The watch went well,” Gawain told him immediately, stepping inside the room and sitting beside Galahad on the cot. “We found some field mice, but Tristan let his hawk take them.”  
  
“You must be careful,” Galahad admonished with a grin. “Field mice can be dangerous.”  
  
Gawain did not respond. His gaze was trapped right where the wound on Galahad’s chest existed. Galahad felt heavier now, trapped in a strange sea of waking dreams and sleeping fantasies. Every second slowed itself, and the world changed itself over twice in the time it took for Gawain to speak.  
  
“Let’s see how close they came to getting you,” Gawain said softly, lifting off Galahad’s shirt. Galahad had a protest on the tip of his tongue, ready to tell Gawain that he had been in with him as the surgeon treated him, patched him up, checked on him. He would have seen the wound. As Galahad’s shirt drifted past his head, setting curls out of place, he was silent with his protests. Gawain gently tossed the shirt to the side of the cot, his hands sliding back down and over the wound. “Close one,” he remarked with quiet relief.  
  
Galahad gritted his teeth together, aware that the feeling of Gawain’s fingertips on his skin was something he had been dreaming about more often lately, but his breaths came in agony as hot fingers pressed against the wound. “Yes, and funny,” he gasped out, his fingers clutching the sheets tightly, “absolutely  _painless_  when you touch it,” he snapped out bitterly.  
  
Immediately, Gawain moved his hands away from the wound, but did not remove them from Galahad’s chest. “It was close,” he reiterated.   
  
“Yes,” Galahad admitted. “It was.” He gave a brave smile and held Gawain’s gaze. “You kept your promise,” he said with quiet amazement, quite aware that Gawain’s hands were still resting flatly against his chest as his heart began to beat faster, his dreams of late coming to the front of his mind to haunt him with images of Gawain sweating, Gawain writhing atop him, Gawain simply _taking_  him.   
  
He shivered slightly and watched, but Gawain seemed fixated on Galahad’s chest now.  
  
“Hmm?” he murmured, his gaze frozen on the wound.  
  
“I’m alive,” he said. He rested his hands atop Gawain’s and moved them down slowly, past his abdomen and lower, until they rested flatly on Galahad’s hipbones. In that moment, Galahad chose to change his world. Gawain looked slightly bewildered, but leaned closer even as Galahad leaned forward. “Yes, Gawain. I accept your offer. Have me,” he said quietly, but intensely. “Use me as you wish.”   
  
Gawain stopped moving, both of them frozen in place. He shook his head, a look of wonder settling in on his features as he gave a small and genuine smile. “I wish to keep you protected,” he leaned in, his voice and face serious now. “To keep you safe from harm,” he continued, his face in the crook of Galahad’s neck.   
  
Galahad let out a sharp cry when Gawain bit down against the skin and tugged slightly before sucking on that same flesh, and kissing it as he pulled away. Galahad felt a wave of dizziness nearly claim him, but he pushed through it, swaying only slightly and meeting Gawain’s eyes with a smile of his own.   
  
“Keep you as  _mine_ ,” Gawain growled, pushing him down and straddling him. Galahad leaned back, the blood rushing to his face as he took deep and heavy breaths, remembering with delight that the door was closed. Galahad’s fingers flew to push the armour and shirt off of Gawain, but Gawain’s hands were there first, unbuckling belts and getting off of Galahad temporarily to strip himself of his heavier cloth. Galahad watched as though this were still a dream as pieces of flesh began to slowly appear from behind the dull glint of armour.   
  
Galahad sat up, brushing the hair out of his eyes and watched as Gawain pushed down his trousers and pants in one smooth motion, turning slightly and catching Galahad’s gaze.  
  
“I ask you once more,” Gawain started hesitantly. “Are you sure?”  
  
“Gawain,” Galahad lay back, spreading his legs slightly. “I am yours.”   
  
Gawain took those words to heart and advanced, pressing his chest to Galahad’s and slowly lowering himself, his hands resting on Galahad’s hips and tugging at his breeches and his pants and pulling them down slowly, the tip of Gawain’s nose traversing down the length of Galahad’s leg. Gawain’s eyes were closed, and Galahad watched as he was completely shed of all his clothing, lying there naked in the light of the moon.   
  
Gawain opened his eyes, his hair dangling over his eyes and obscuring Galahad’s study of his face. He reached up and pushed it to the side, pulling Gawain closer to him and tentatively leaning up to press their lips together. What started as something gentle and hesitant quickly escalated into a gnashing of lips and teeth and tongues, Gawain pressing down against Galahad with all his might, his cock hard and thrusting against Galahad’s in search of friction.   
  
Galahad gasped out, his fingernails digging into Gawain’s biceps and he tilted his head back, letting out a guttural and deep cry as Gawain tracked hard kisses across Galahad’s jaw over and down the strained muscles of Galahad’s neck. Gawain remained ever careful of the wound and kept his weight off Galahad’s chest, his body thrusting up against Galahad, their cocks brushing against each other. Galahad moved his hands frantically up and down Gawain’s back – now sticky with perspiration – and let out a long, low cry as one of Gawain’s hands moved between their bodies and wrapped around Galahad’s cock.   
  
“Shh,” Gawain murmured into Galahad’s ear as he stroked Galahad’s cock, slower than Galahad had ever done over the years. He writhed and arched his back as the slow speed of Gawain’s fingers over his erection seemed to turn into torture as the seconds passed. “Shh,” he repeated quietly. “We won’t rush this.”   
  
Galahad felt he might come undone at any second, he might lose control at any moment with Gawain’s fingers stroking the length of his cock with slow, exanimate study, with careful touches in places that made sharp cries of pleasure and desire come from the back of Galahad’s throat. Gawain’s other hand was delicately brushing the curls out of Galahad’s eyes while he inflicted such sweet torture on him, brushing his thumb against the underside of Galahad’s cock and flicking it again and again over the head, causing Galahad to inhale and exhale with infinitely short gasps of breath.  
  
And faintly, he was aware that he was pleading.  
  
“Gawain,” he swallowed the cry that was building in his throat. He begged in a hoarse and needy whimper, “Gawain, please. Please,” he begged. “Faster. Please,” that last plea was guttural and deep and desperate.   
  
Gawain seemed to take Galahad’s pleading to heart, because he increased his strokes, his own hard cock pushing hard against Galahad’s hip. He brought Galahad to a peak of desperate cries and tensed up passion before Galahad threw his head back, a strangled cry on his lips, and he came with Gawain’s name on his tongue, crying it out in a fervent scream. His body fell back to the cot as he went loose and relaxed. Gawain slowly lowered himself over Galahad, his hand still resting on Galahad’s cock as he pressed a whisper of a kiss just above the wound on Galahad’s chest.   
  
“That…” Galahad began softly, his palm splayed flatly against Gawain’s chest. “Thank you,” he murmured. “Thank you, Gawain,” he repeated sleepily. The claws of sleep were too close now, and he was ready to ask if Gawain wanted reciprocation for their deeds, but before he could voice any concerns, he surrendered himself to Morpheus’ clutch on him, a terrible and empty world of dreams where all he could do was sleep in suspended blankness, wanting more than anything to be awake and feel the comfort of warm hands and a warm body against his.   
  
***  
  
Galahad awoke to nimble fingers on his chest. He rubbed at his eyes and looked down to find Gawain changing the cloth bandage, wrapping it around his body with gentle hands. He gave a truly stupid grin as he remembered the night before and reached out to brush his thumb against Gawain’s cheek.   
  
“You don’t have to do that,” Galahad commented as Gawain tied the cloth off in a knot. The only reply he received was a slow, lingering kiss atop his lips. Gawain pulled away and pressed his lips to Galahad’s forehead before slowly dressing. “Or that, though, I enjoy it.”   
  
“Galahad, do you never shut up?” Gawain asked him with a smirk to his face. “Or will it be days of keeping you quiet through other means?”   
  
Galahad sat up, reaching forward and grasping Gawain by his hair and pulling him forward, turning his head to the side and biting down hard at the place where neck met shoulder on Gawain’s skin, his fingers brushing over it as Galahad pulled away.   
  
“You may have to help in keeping me quiet. Minding me, perhaps,” Galahad conceded, getting up and searching for his clothing. “Though, I hear you’re absolutely terrible when it comes to minding things and people. Tristan says you’ve lost his hawk, and Bors has said that you’ve let two of his children run into the wilderness under your eye.”  
  
“You’re beginning to irritate me,” Gawain commented mildly, raising one eyebrow.   
  
“Only now?” Galahad replied with light surprise. “I haven’t been trying hard enough.”  
  
Gawain looked at him, laughter pulling at the edges of his mouth, and finally he gave a great burst of laughter, cuffing Galahad upside the head and sitting down on the cot, doubled over with amusement. Galahad sat beside him, unable to strike the grin from his face, and wondering just how he could not understand this method of comfort so many years past in the forest when he first saw Lancelot and Arthur.   
  
Now, he finally felt comprehension.  
  
And it felt good.  
  
***  
  
Through patrols in the wilderness, snowy winters and unsufferable summers, Galahad suffered them all with a grin on his face and cherished the looks Gawain sent his way. He grew used to Gawain always checking on him, grew used to sharing a bed at night and the feel of a warm body pressed to his own – something thanked for effusively in the cold nights – and he even grew used to Gawain speaking for him.   
  
By the time he turned twenty, Galahad felt he had earned a strong and quiet maturity to him, and that he could even quantify his time with Gawain as perhaps a strange and awkward relationship of sorts, devised in order to keep each other happy and comforted. One of the strangest things was that Galahad never spoke of this to Arthur, despite the knowledge that Arthur would understand, and could not frown upon it without turning to hypocrisy.   
  
They would return from battles and turn to each other, clinging to each other’s bodies as though it was their last night upon the Earth. Each battle made them grow more rough in their relations, Galahad more desperate with every kiss, Gawain more forceful with every thrust as he pushed inside Galahad, stretching him out and claiming him over and over. Galahad surrended himself to Gawain’s touch, and Gawain would never deny a request from Galahad.  
  
And so it went.   
  
When Galahad turned twenty, he closed his door and tilted back a quiet grin to the sky. Freedom was in sight. He had three years more to survive and this service to a nation he couldn’t stand would be over. He turned when the door opened and Gawain slipped inside, the sun’s rays shining into Galahad’s chamber.  
  
“I’ve heard it’s someone’s birthday,” Gawain closed the door behind him.   
  
“Is it?” Galahad turned and grinned.  
  
“Twenty,” Gawain shook his head in awe.   
  
“Not so much a boy anymore,” Galahad replied proudly, puffing out his chest and then recognizing his show of bravado and tucking it back in. He gave a sheepish grin and replaced it with one of sincerity as Gawain edged closer.   
  
“But still young,” Gawain teased.   
  
“As are you,” Galahad retorted. He shook his head, taking himself out of the lapse into immaturity. He gave a wistful smile. “We’re almost there, Gawain. So close to being free. If I close my eyes, I can see Sarmatia. I can still see my village.”  
  
“You’re still thinking about that,” Gawain scoffed. “Why can’t you accept this for home? Us for your family?”  
  
“It’s never left me,” Galahad admitted. “Always, my final destination has been Sarmatia.”  
  
Gawain pulled away. He had been so close to being in Galahad’s grasp, but now he was inching further and further back, betrayal on his face. Galahad frowned, wondering at what he’d said to set this off before realizing that Gawain was still holding out hope that Galahad would have an epiphany and realize that home was wherever he was.   
  
“Gawain,” Galahad said tiredly, rubbing his eyes.   
  
“No,” Gawain opened the door. “It’s all right,” he continued with a broad, fake smile. “I’ll leave you be with your memories and plans for when you get your freedom. After all, it’s what you want so badly,” he added snidely, slamming the door as he left. Galahad sighed heavily, sinking down upon the cot and lying down to face the ceiling, wondering how to best go about fixing this.   
  
He didn’t see anyone until nightfall at the celebration for him. He was handed a mug by Lancelot, given a clap on the back and a promise to bring him the best in ales before the night’s end. Galahad opened his mouth to answer with a hearty thanks, but before he could do so, his attention was whisked away by Gawain in the corner, a pretty lass sitting on his lap.   
  
He caught Gawain’s gaze and was met with a challenging stare before Gawain turned all his attention back to the dark-haired beauty. Galahad chuckled to himself bitterly, shaking his head and knowing that he would be in for a long, cold night. He sat around long enough to finish his drink and went in search of Lancelot to ask for another, but Lancelot was not to be found.   
  
Vanora was singing an old tune, captivating the crowd. In the midst of it, Galahad slipped away to wander the shadows. He sighed and headed to the stables, intending to take a night ride. As he was rounding the corner, a harsh voice stopped him.  
  
“This is too much,” it was Lancelot.  
  
“Lancelot, we must not…”  
  
“Whom do you fear? Is it me, or is it your enemy? The Romans tell you that there are Saxons invading villages, but that’s not new! The threat of the Woads has never been out of sight, nor out of mind,” Lancelot continued on, his voice desperate and angry. “So why do you throw us away?”  
  
“To protect you!”  
  
“Arthur, stop protecting me!” Lancelot growled, and stormed out of the stable. Galahad ducked around the corner, pressing his back to the wall and breathing heavily. He stayed there until he was sure if was safe to move, and when he did move, it was only back to his chambers.   
  
He curled up on the bed, his face blank and his thoughts empty. He wished himself a happy birthday and knew that his world had been shaken and that what was once unchanging touchstones were now gone. There had been finality to Lancelot’s words, and Galahad feared that not one, but two couplings had been split that night.  
  
He drifted off to a cold sleep, wondering if in some way, this was his punishment for surviving the Woad’s arrow, and if maybe, he were meant to be dead. His dreams were haunted by Woads and taunting laughter, whispering and hushed voices accusing Galahad of being a coward.  
  
He jumped awake in the middle of night, his breath heavy. His hand immediately covered his wound, a default reaction ever since it had healed. There was only a scar there now, white flesh with pink flecks decorating it. He was sweating copiously, and he realized that he wasn’t alone in the room. Across from his cot, Gawain sat sleeping in a chair. Galahad made it to his knees, reaching across and shaking Gawain’s shoulder gently.  
  
“Gawain,” Galahad mumbled sleepily, rubbing his eyes with his free hand.   
  
Gawain snapped awake, his body relaxing when he saw it was Galahad rousing him. He frowned and brushed his hair away from his eyes.   
  
“Gawain, what are you doing?” Galahad asked tiredly, moving over and making room for Gawain to join him. “I thought you were with that woman tonight.”  
  
“Did it make you jealous?” Gawain stumbled over his words as he pushed the chair aside and crawled under the sheet, not quite touching Galahad. He lay on his back, turning slightly to speak. “I was trying to make you jealous because I was stupid.”  
  
“Yes,” Galahad responded.  
  
“Yes, I made you jealous?”  
  
“Yes, you’re stupid,” Galahad snapped back. “And yes, I was jealous.”  
  
“Good,” Gawain muttered with a smug grin on his face, settling into Galahad’s side. Galahad merely rolled his eyes and draped one arm around him, glad to have someone close. He hoped the nightmares would be fended away. “Lancelot came back after you were gone. Had a right stick up his ass. I had half a mind to tell him to go back to see Arthur and get it out.”  
  
“Whatever they had is over,” Galahad replied, hoping against hope that Gawain hadn’t said anything terribly idiotic. “I overheard…”  
  
“You have a terribly tendency to eavesdrop,” Gawain interrupted, amused.  
  
“And it sounds…” he continued, straining to remember it properly. “Lancelot sounded angry. It sounded as though Arthur was putting an end to things.”  
  
“When isn’t he a pissant?” Gawain scoffed to himself, he rubbed small circles on Galahad’s shoulder, the slow movement and warmth of Gawain upon him sending him closer and closer to sleep. “Well, unfortunately for you then, you’re to be stuck with me. I don’t think our little round table could deal with more broken hearts.”  
  
“Leaving me to my own misery would do enough damage,” Galahad murmured drowsily, unaware of what he was even saying anymore.  
  
“Go to sleep,” Gawain said evenly.  
  
And, at the fault of his damned exhaustion, Galahad’s eyes fell closed and he was pulled back into the deep recesses of sleep, warmer than he’d been before.   
  
***  
  
The years passed, and Galahad’s hands were stained with more blood than he thought possible. Not only were the Woads attacking villages in defiance to the Roman regime, but more and more Saxons had begun to flood the mainland. Galahad could no longer pick apart the faces of men he’d killed. Once, he had killed a woman warrior – she was a Woad – and he hadn’t realized his hands were trembling until Gawain had pulled them into his own and inquired as to what had happened.  
  
With every victory came a sombre attitude of anticipation. Freedom was no longer a means to get home, but a means to stop the brutality. Galahad knew he had to protect himself, but this life of massacre was beginning to be too much. His temper was flaring up, his patience was shorter with everyone. No one earned a reprieve, not even Gawain. He was tired of people speaking up for him, he was tired of fighting for a city he had never even seen, and he was tired of killing.   
  
And yet, it was kill or be killed.   
  
With terrifying weeks, he learned that perhaps it might have been better for him to have left the service. When Gawain had volunteered the both of them for that final mission, it may have been better to just leave. That way, he wouldn’t have had to watch as Dagonet fell on the ice. He wouldn’t have to see Lancelot collapse with an arrow that hit the heart – no near miss for Lancelot, and Galahad felt that Lancelot had paid the price for him to survive. And worst of all, Tristan.   
  
He hadn’t sat by graves for a decade now, but he would not leave Tristan’s grave, one hand askance and resting on Dagonet’s sword. He wept so often now, for the first time since he had been pried from his village. He wept for their lives and wondered why it hadn’t been him. He did not see Gawain, and he was left alone at the side of the graves. Tristan, no longer there to pull him away. Dagonet, no longer at his side to tell him it would be prudent to rest. Lancelot, taken from them all.   
  
For one sunset, and two sunrises, Galahad sat collapsed beside the graves, his head in his hands. He wept haltingly, praying to Arthur’s god, praying to his own deities, cursing the Saxons and the Romans for good measure and letting out screams into the calm air. He was there in the light of the second sunrise as Arthur came down from the village, settling by Lancelot’s grave site – his ashes already having been prepared to be released soon.   
  
Galahad was half-asleep and half-mad as he watched Arthur fall to his knees, digging his hands deep within the Earth, something he hadn’t seen in years now. Arthur did not acknowledge, nor seem to care for Galahad’s weary presence. They sat there, two Knights in solidarity, mourning for those they had lost. Arthur tilted his head back to the sky, and cursed his god.  
  
He cursed his faith, his god and all his works as Galahad watched with tired eyes and lost hope.  
  
Arthur begged for a trade, for a miracle, but none came.  
  
The sun rose.   
  
***  
  
At midday after the second sunrise, Gawain and Bors finally came to pry Galahad away from the grave. He fought clumsily, pushing away at their grasp and finally letting himself be hauled away. They had both been drinking, that much was clear by their breath. Galahad wondered if Gawain had chosen a girl to take to bed to spare the vain remorse of the pain. He idly realized he wouldn’t blame him if he had.   
  
“We’ve another funeral,” Bors commented quietly, his voice deadened.   
  
They carried him by the arms until he found it in him to walk, and when he did walk, he lagged behind them by at least five paces. They were heading for the cliffs, where Guinevere and Arthur were already sitting. Guinevere. She had taken somewhat of a shining to both Arthur and Lancelot, and in the back of his mind, Galahad hoped that Arthur would not close his heart to her.   
  
When he finally trudged up to the rocks, Arthur was standing, his cape fluttering in the wind, his eyes out to sea. Galahad sat himself down on a rock, his eyes on the ground. Gawain sat beside him and Bors stood behind them. All three of them sat in silence, their faces drawn and tired.   
  
“Knights,” Arthur quietly spoke. Gawain and Galahad rose to their feet, and the four of them placed their hands on the urn that Merlin had given as a gift. Gawain wiped away at his eyes, stray tears not quite falling, but sitting there. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Our brother in arms, our fallen Knight. Lancelot shall always be remembered by us in our minds,” he faltered. “In our hearts,” he continued.   
  
“To Lancelot,” Gawain commented, his voice breaking.  
  
“To Lancelot,” they all echoed.   
  
The wind whipped about their heads, sending hair flying and dust into the air. As Arthur stepped out to the edge of the cliff and took the top off of the urn, that same strong easterly wind carried the ashes of a fallen Knight into the unknown, setting him free. Arthur paused before flinging the urn out to sea, watching it crash upon the rocks. He stood there, frozen, until Guinevere gently tugged at his arm, pulling him away from the edge and down the path.   
  
Bors turned, watching them go.  
  
“The young ones,” he started, “they’ve never been so happy to see me. And Vanora’s been so good to me, I’m starting to fear she may never give me a slap for a good while. It’s strange.”  
  
“They’re happy you’re alive,” Gawain said simply.  
  
“I’m not,” Bors grunted. “I love my lot, and I love my lass, but in the middle of the night when it’s dead quiet and all I can do is think…we stand united, we fall together. When they fell, I should have gone with them,” he added quietly. “But if that’s not the way it’s supposed to be, then I’ll just have to love my lot and lass quite a bit more to make up for it.”  
  
He gave a sad smile before following Arthur and Guinevere down the path.  
  
Galahad stumbled, making his way to the grasses and sat down upon them, happy to feel strong earth beneath him. Gawain hesitated, but sat beside him. They stared out to sea together, and the wind brought about tears in Galahad’s eyes.  
  
“I’m glad we survived,” Gawain finally said. “I miss them. I already do, but I’m glad we didn’t die with them.” He turned and with prying and gentle fingers, he began to lift up Galahad’s shirt. Galahad pulled away defensively, shoving Gawain to the side. This was met with a rough shove back. “Stop it, you idiot. I just want to see what scars this battle left you with.”  
  
“Not so many that you see,” Galahad murmured, lifting up his shirt and revealing a long, shallow scar across his chest. He brushed aside the flaps of his skirt and displayed a deep spear wound. “More on the inside.”   
  
Gawain tapped his arm. “I’ll say this for the Saxons, they can’t shoot straight, just like a young boy I once knew. I am endlessly grateful for their terrible lack of skills when it comes to archery.”  
  
Galahad remained silent, crossing his arms over his legs and resting his head upon them.  
  
“Tristan’s…” Galahad stumbled with the name. This was the first time he’d spoke it aloud. “Tristan’s hawk came back to the outpost.”  
  
“I saw.”  
  
“Tristan set it free, but it came back,” Galahad continued, frowning. He didn’t flinch, nor move as Gawain leaned over and smoothed out the furrowed brow with his thumb. Galahad sighed. “You kept me alive. You kept your promise all these years, you haven’t let me die.”  
  
“No,” Gawain agreed.   
  
“I was thinking, in my time out in the graveyard,” Galahad began slowly. “That perhaps I was too quick to judgement in thinking I would return to Sarmatia when my service was over. There’s become another option since then.”  
  
“And which option do you choose?” Gawain asked hesitantly.   
  
“Well,” Galahad started, getting to his feet. “Because of the fine job you’ve done protecting me over the years, I started to think that perhaps,” he continued, offering a hand out to Gawain, which was taken. Galahad pulled Gawain to his feet before brushing his hands off on his sides and continuing, “perhaps I shouldn’t change a good arrangement.”  
  
“Home is where I am,” Gawain replied cockily.  
  
“Besides, we’ve Bors’ children to watch over. I’m sure Lancelot would want us to keep an eye on his bastards,” Galahad finally smiled sincerely as they began to walk back to the village, the sun dipping into the sea behind them. “And you can’t be trusted to survive on your own.”  
  
Gawain shrugged as darkness began to set upon the land.  
  
“We’re not so young anymore,” Gawain commented. “I think we can take care of ourselves.”  
  
“Or earn more scars trying.”  
  
They walked off side by side, brothers in arms, and Galahad finally felt the last pieces of the intricate puzzle he had been carrying with him for years click together and complete itself.  
  
He understood.   
  
THE END  
  



End file.
